


En déshabillé

by kid_n_the_hall



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, Still not doing plot, Things that speedo gif does to my brain, Working night shifts again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-21
Updated: 2016-10-21
Packaged: 2018-08-23 16:49:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8335069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kid_n_the_hall/pseuds/kid_n_the_hall
Summary: Ok, so this is a silly little piece, but I really adore the segments in some fics where Phryne's doing some contemplating by herself after sexytimes. Studying herself and the marks and lovebites fondly, playing a reprise in her head (I imagine), sort of indulging herself once more.It made me think that Jack should too (disclaimer: I have yet to read ALL the fics, so maybe he does but allow me to freewheel here, m'kay?).And, oh, someone wise (YouKnowMeAsJ) told me that if one were to present you with enough naked Jack, one would eventually be dubbed Queen. And since I take things very literally, and also like to put up freakishly high standards for myself sometimes, I figured I should start adding to the theoretical Naked Jack Collection.





	

He couldn’t go back to sleep, previous night's escapades still radiated through him, making his mind spin. He was afraid his sort of euphoric fidgeting might wake her, and he didn't wish to push his luck just yet. So he left the sleeping heap of Phryne to head for the lavatory, deciding that tending to nature’s not so urgent call, or at least a glass of water, might calm him.

After a moment's hesitation he wrapped himself in one of her kimonos, a feeling of imprudent cheek washing over him, being convinced Phryne wouldn’t mind the least. Padding through the hallway, Phryne’s penchant for silk made more sense to him, the feeling was divine to be honest, and rather exciting.

*

Entering the lavatory , he catches a glimpse of the relatively parodic figure he makes in the large mirror next to the washbasin. Tall male form, draped with a scarlet kimono hanging from wider shoulders than the dressmaker intended. He hadn't bother to tie the sash, the robe now loose and open. Before he can really think he shrugs the robe off, hanging it carefully on the hook on the door, and stands in front of the mirror. He wonders if he'll ever be close to viewing his body like she seems to do.

The reflection is both familiar and strange. He looks relaxed, despite the lack of sleep, a smile is lurking. Ash brown hair, wavy and unruly. A particularly stubborn lock has claimed his forehead. He remembers how his mother used to curse that cowlick when she tried to tame it. After last night he can guess that Phryne perhaps has cursed it too, but in another tone and for other reasons than him looking proper for church. His mouth quirks, head tilts and with swiftly raised brows he proceeds despite the blush heating his ears.  
He continues the inspection. Lean but not scrawny. Visible muscle at play under somewhat tanned skin that's a bit paler on his torso. Sharp tan lines at his elbows, contrast added successively during recreational time spent in his garden. Not much hair on his, objectively, well developed chest, amount increasing below his navel, a golden trail leading down to his groin. His cock, ahem, right now it's not much to say of it, it too is relaxed, huddled even, from the chill in the lavatory. Last night however, well, Phryne didn’t voice any complaints, she did voice other things though.

Ears now burning. He turns slightly, his glutei maximi shifts, still taut, rather shapely, she certainly seemed to appreciate them. He tries to shake how far-out this situation is for him. Moving along. Thighs, bearing more subtle tan lines, and the abundance of muscle there tell tales of hours extorting himself on a pushbike. Knobbly knees, fairly sturdy calves, and, uh, feet are feet.

Well, that was quite the clinical observation, he might as well just have been lying on stainless steel letting Mac do a report on him.

The point is, he hasn't been aware of his body earlier like he was last night, he wants to make sense of that. Sure, he knew it. He knew how to use it, what he could demand and how it would answer. He even harboured some sense of pride regarding its capabilities. For cycling, tennis, running and the odd swim. It had, obviously, brought some pleasure too, his marriage was once as enthusiastic as any. He's obviously taken himself in hand, but not so often for the pure pleasure. More as a way to let off steam, with the hope to finally be able to sleep or regain some focus. His principled upbringing and meticulously groomed self restraint be damned.  
He'd always thought of his body as sort of neutral ground. Clearly he was mistaken. He feels naïve not to have thought that she would feel similar to what he feels at the sight of her. That the sight of him was aesthetically enticing enough to elicit little sighs of desire from someone’s lips, from her lips. It was incredibly arousing, he must admit.  And so very not good for his ego.

He was still perplexed how blatantly she had admired his body, inch by inch as she stripped him. Eyes that darkened, naughty smile growing by the second. _Which other things did also, thank you very much._ She'd taken a complete visual inventory. He enjoyed it. He was surprised by how exciting it felt rather than awkward, perhaps because she made him feel like he was indulging her _._

She relished the sight of him, slowly tracing clavicles, chest, ribs, shoulders, she hummed in delight, spine, arse and...his cock springs to attention again at the memory.  

Then she opted for more of a hands-on approach. Delicate fingers ruffled his hair. Nails lightly scraped his scalp, made him quiver, grazed down his neck, shoulders and arms to intertwine with his fingers. How she looked him in the eyes as she kissed each knuckle, then his palm, moving up to the pad of his thumb before she gently bit into it, with a little mischievous smile. The memory triggers a buzzing rush along his spine, and a little more blood diverts from brain to groin.

He has never yearned for another as strongly, body or soul, as he does for Phryne. And he has never felt the desire to be mirrored or bounced back so forcefully. It's equally exhilarating and terrifying.

As if he’d stood before a cougar about to eat him alive. Measured him, her delicious prey. How she’d pounced eventually, though not to rip him apart but to graciously rub herself against him. She’d relished the sensation of skin against skin, his body against hers. Leaned in with her nose to his neck, she’d literally _purred_.

She carefully threaded with her fingertips over his body, noted where he was ticklish. Took record of his scars, kissed them, queried about their history. To cocky on a bike at twelve. A bullet from a raid at twenty. Wet trenches. Shrapnel. Knife in a drunken brawl. A thrown teacup. A particularly nasty cut from a rose thorn.

Now they've got fresh company. His own personal dental record of Phryne Fisher, just were neck merge to shoulder. Angry, red scratches on his behind. He gets goose bumps thinking about those. And a smug smile. There's a bruise on his waist. On his chest. A couple of love bites there actually. On his throat. A long, thin, pink mark runs horizontally from buttock to hipbone, from a belt impatiently tugged from his trousers belt hoops. He marvels at how she'd savoured the process of getting his clothes off. ”The unwrapping's half the fun, Jack”.  
His knees sport rug burns, the thought of their origin have him flushed and even more aroused.

He stretches out his hands, ponders them, curls them into fists, unclenches. They're large, strong, sinewy and capable. Quite capable indeed, he hums and blushes further as he turns them, viewing them from all angles. He rubs his thumbs against the tips of the other fingers, recollecting the pleasure they brought just hours ago. He puts his forefinger to his lips, sucks it in, the taste of Phryne still lingering. And a jolt of desire crashes towards his loins.

He forgets the water, almost forgets the robe.  
*

The door creaks as he reenters the boudoir, causing the sleeping heap of Phryne to stir.

 ”Come back to bed, you beautiful man”, a raspy, sleepy voice sounds from the shifting bundle under the duvet. A pale hand is extracted from underneath it to emphasize the words with a beckoning gesture. With three fast strides he's in the bed, curling up snugly behind a warm, mussed up Phryne. He exhales in an appeased sigh behind her ear.

”Did you start without me?” she asks delighted as she wiggles closer to fully assess his arousal with her buttocks.

”Perhaps I took a leaf out of your book, Miss Fisher”.

*


End file.
